I am on holiday in Mid Wales, in what was once called Radnorshire but is now part of Powys. It is a beautiful landscape of streams and wooded valleys and sheep farms, and I arrived here by e-bike and train. I have been a regular cyclist since I became a medical student 50 years ago, but of late I was increasingly distressed by being overtaken by other cyclists when pedalling in London—some looking even older than me. It eventually dawned on me that many of them were riding e-bikes. Stupidly, I felt that e-bikes were cheating, but that changed when my car was written off in a crash three months ago.
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I had agreed to go to Folkestone to take part in a run to Dover on World Ocean Day to raise awareness of marine pollution, but I had injured my ankle two weeks earlier when in Ukraine—not a war injury but a consequence of sitting with my foot twisted under a chair while being interviewed for the Ukrainian equivalent of NPR in Kyiv. Impaired, I could only lend moral support to my friend who was doing the run.
I went to Folkestone with a Ukrainian friend who had just been told that a friend of hers had been killed. Several years ago, Mykola and his wife Oksana had moved from Lviv to near Kherson. They established a goat farm on the left bank of the Dnipro river and sold artisan cheese to restaurants in Kyiv and Lviv. When the Russians invaded, they couldn’t leave because of the goats, and when the Russians blew up the Kakhovka dam, the goats all drowned.
Mykola and Oksana tried to escape across the floodwaters, but were fired upon by the Russians. Oksana made it to safety, but Mykola disappeared in the confusion. My friend had just heard that his body had been found. So the two of us sat on the beach at Folkestone—fine weather, gentle waves breaking on the shingle—in a sombre mood.
As we left Folkestone, I was so preoccupied that I pulled out at a crossroads in front of a large Mercedes taxi, which crashed into the driver’s door of my car. The other driver was remarkably forgiving when I apologised profusely and said the accident was my fault. Getting back to London was not without difficulties as my motoring association, despite my having paid large sums of money annually for 50 years, told me that I had cover for breakdown rescue but not for being rescued after an accident—a fine distinction I failed to appreciate.
I had injured my ankle two weeks earlier when in Ukraine—not a war injury but a consequence of sitting with my foot twisted under a chair while being interviewed
I spent days looking indecisively at car sale websites until I realised that I didn’t want a car anymore. I then started reading about e-cargo bikes, e-bikes that can carry up to 200kg. I also worked out that I could afford to hire a car for three to four weeks a year at roughly the same cost as owning a car which would, of course, spend most of the time sitting unused on the street. Besides, there is nothing now that cannot be delivered to your door.
The journey here involved changing trains three times. The only difficulty is that the bike weighs 35kg (although it is no larger than an ordinary bicycle) and lifting it onto the trains was a struggle. The last leg of the journey was on the Heart of Wales line—a single track of bolted rails that clatter rhythmically as the train passes through the exquisite countryside of the Welsh borders and small village halts. Harold Wilson’s government had planned on closing the line until the secretary of state for Wales supposedly said at a cabinet meeting, “But prime minister, it passes through six marginal constituencies!”
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The cottage I am staying in was bought by my parents more than 50 years ago in a completely derelict state. It had walls, a roof, broken cast-iron windows and nothing else. Sheep sheltered in it when it rained. My parents had it renovated, and now my siblings, their families and I—some dozen households—take turns to spend time there. The arrangement works well. It stands on its own in a quiet valley, facing a hill of dense oak trees. I can hear the stream running and a red kite calling as I sit here by the window.
I am engaged in building a writer’s shed (a home office, in other words) at the top of the narrow garden behind the cottage. Establishing foundations on a very steep slope is difficult and lugging the building materials 100m up the garden is hard work. My son-in-law Tom is doing the heavy lifting and my young granddaughters help with mixing concrete for the foundations. The views are superb, and it will be a fine place in which future generations can work.
As for leaving by e-bike next week, I underestimated the difficulties of booking bike places on the train, and I will have to cycle the 45 miles to Hereford to catch a train to Oxford. But I will take minor roads through beautiful countryside and the e-bike will take the effort out of cycling—I cannot recommend them strongly enough. They really are the future, but I hope it doesn’t rain.
